Music

Jack’s life in music

Last Waltz at the Duluth Band shell

/ Norman Eric Peterson / 1 Comment

They were always the best gigs. Weddings. Playing for a wedding was indeed, icing on the cake. The music our band played was very polished and incredible. I was the guitar player and we had a mandolin, stand up bass and our leader was the fiddler. Square dance music from the old days and we also had a caller for the dances. Several of them. We were well known and royalties were coming in a little from the sale of our CD. On our way to small fame and fortune. Years rolled by and the gigs kept coming. We had a reputation and were in demand within a few states drive. It was fun and the energy was very high paced. We loved one another, often rode together. I was known as the rhythm monster as I changed up things from easy swing to double time back up, back and forth and it was fun and it worked.

After a few years, the CD’s sales began to drop off and the royalties faded. Every musician knows these things. If we had done vinyl recordings, we would have made the racks of records that are found in many quality music stores. Also in second hand thrift shops.

Our children were young and the constant travel every weekend took me away from my family. None of the other musicians had children. At my last last gig at the Duluth band shell it was known by the band that it was my last one. Poignant and emotionally charged for us all. We had been together for years and it was time. I was needed at home and that was good and right.

During this time together, at one of our band rehearsals I put forth at our upcoming dance camp that we have a church service on the Sunday. Our leader, the fiddler and his wife quickly refused. I acquiesced. The mandolin player did not stand up for the Sunday morning idea. I was young in the faith and my enthusiasm for our faith was not shared. I knew then, it was an important pivot point for me and my family.

I did let it slide but I think that it was important to make it known It was important to me. The lead fiddlers wife is Jewish and I lightened things up and lightly said, “Well, how about on Saturdays?” Nonetheless, she was not a Messianic Jew and did not consider Jesus as her Messiah. She did not attend Temple either. After the light laughter it was over. No worship service at our Sunday gigs. I would have conducted it myself but our leader did not even consider that. It was offensive to him as his father was a pastor and there was resentment. It happens with some children that get put into believing when they do not.

A short time ago, a similar disappointment occurred to me when a paper I was columnist in told me that I had to stop writing references to Jesus. After over three years with the paper, the new owner decided it was offensive to the readers in NW Wisconsin. His choice and now, my choice. I decided I not comply and was politely fired. Two other columnists who quoted Scripture were let go and I was next on the list. There was disappointment among a lot of readers for these decisions. “What happened to pastor Seth and Sally?” was commonly said. After a while it was accepted by the populace. The paper continues to get thinner. Just a coincidence?

The editor, a good friend, gave me the news of the impending cancellation and approved my way of bowing out of my column but said to me, “I envy your faith” I miss writing every week with them and in my last column just told a false hood that it was too demanding to write a column every week. It felt good and right to quit gently rather than make a fuss that is not constructive to the way I am supposed to live.

Actually, I write a lot, sometimes every day. It was a graceful way to leave. My readers were puzzled and once in a while someone will tell me they miss my column in that local paper. I do too.

At my last concert in Duluth, we were going to play my favorite waltz, ‘ Ashoken Farewell’ by Darrell Angar. The fiddler did not like it when I played along with him, I was not his equal but it was a good duet for me. I went to hook up my fiddle and he instantly began playing, not waiting for me. It was hard for me to know, once again, I was indeed, second fiddle. I did not make any mistakes but in retrospect, I should have accompanied him on guitar. It is easier to play a tender song like that with keys or a guitar in the background.

At Julie’s and my wedding we had four fiddlers stand around her on the alter and we all played a Scandinavian waltz, Helsa Dem Dar Hemma. Kevin McMullin, Bill Hinkley, Mary Dushane and I.

After the Duluth last gig, Kevin asked me “How does it feel to be finished with us?” I answered, “relieved” Not the answer he was expecting as I looked at his face. Now I stay at home more and helped raise our two sons. Home schooling and all the neat books by Dr. Suess and lots of Veggie Tales. It worked, Julie did most of the education work as she has a Masters degree in those sorts of things. At this writing I was working with my oldest son, Bjorn, as his assistant media director at Eagle Brook Church in Minnesota I started out on the prayer team and moved to production as a camera operator. Tripod only, the hand helds are ‘somewhat’ heavy for me! My youngest son, Soren. is the drummer in a worship band for the Riders for the Son motorcycle group. Julie is now a Bible study leader with members throughout the world on the internet.

It can be hard to stand for our faith. When I remember that time again with the Ducks, I pray for them. Often. I was replaced with another guitarist, but he was not a rhythm monster. They went on for a while and quietly disbanded. It was not the same for them either and I do miss it. There was a lot of love among us.

I went on to play with a few worship bands and led worship at several church gatherings. My family began a house of worship in a local town and we had wonderful times singing, playing and writing songs. It lasted for almost 4 years.

These days, at 81, I have not been playing out anymore. I miss it but am now writing about our Lord; a lot. Almost 400 columns now and also write for my web site. Another newspaper near Lake Superior, The Bottom Line News and Views welcomes my writing. It feels good and right and continues to grow my prayer life. This is what I have been set to. Write about real things and always praise the Lord within the stories. After all, He did save my life by speaking to me and how many things have happened afterwards I cannot list them all. He likes to have fun with me and I like it too.

I still play music at home now and then, not ensemble, even learning on the keyboard. That feels good and right too. It’s pretty good, Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

The life of a Lover of Jesus

/ Norman Eric Peterson / 1 Comment

How can this be? A quilt of life that is surprisingly delightful and just as easily not comprehended. Everyone has this road of travel and when trying to explain our lives. For me, it seems like I am bragging about adventure and failure, fear and success and a thorough drifting about life as a blown about maple leaf in the street. Just there by some random wind. Wrinkled by the forces that put me there, run over a few times and still seen as it once was. Life that hangs onto creation, fluttering in the blown wind of God’s breath and now, seemingly bound for …somewhere.

To that leaf, it seems an exciting life, watching growth and seeing other maples growing nearby. Weathering snapping lightning and severe winds. Basking in life giving light and warmth and envying the oak leaves that are better at hanging on through the winters.

Being reborn every year and feeling the contribution of energy given in enough amount to give again the impossible sap that nourishes the created tree and the people that know the sap is also to nourish them with sweetness that always delights.

What is my purpose in life? To grow and feel my life unfold with reward and danger. Then be gifted and surprised by hearing it’s OK to be what I am and to move with the wind of the presence of God’s breath and guidance. It wasn’t always obvious I was being prepared to a purpose of serving when it seemed that survival and pleasure was my given life. Subjective or Objective reality. The Tau and the famous Greek philosophy or our own versions of truth which are subject to us and our emotions. Instead of listening to the perfect truth of Christ. ‘The abolition of Man’ by C.S. Lewis explains these things better than I can.

The trauma of violence of childhood, and then wandering throughout the land and being blown about by seemingly random events that formed me. Having my own secretary at 16 years old in a mansion in Minneapolis, working with the Boy Scouts communicating via Ham Radio to a far flung camp without a telephone. Then failing my calculus in engineering at MIT, joining the military and being caught up in a war at sea. More wandering and evading death in California many times, once with the audible voice of God I did not know, eventually I started an impossible auto repair business in rural Wisconsin. It was Successful and then I was blessed with marriage and two children and a beautiful and faithful wife. Hearing again those words that can’t be believed by many people. Gifts of God.

I saw my best friend, speak five words to me and enter heaven from 2000 miles away. Many things that eventually lead to leading worship in a tiny rural church that gave me and my wife documents saying we were now pastors. We put them in a drawer. My whole family built a house of prayer in a small empty main street shop if Frederic, Wisconsin and staffed it for almost 4 years. Singing and playing and praying. We were overcome with God’s beauty and love. We also traveled a little around the country worshiping with other lovers of Jesus. Our sons with us in DC and other places.

Now the maple leaf is indeed withered and quieter, still blessed with sustenance and beauty. And now joined with other people that have similar blessings and and need for sustenance and encouragement.

I tap into that flow of life once again that I am given by my creator, that gift of light and love that was always there. I am beginning to watch and stop and listen for the voice that is the best book and the words given to me. What’s next for the weathered one? Excited and puzzled and weary at times, I keep looking ahead to another chapter and move with that breath of life. Often I still look up at that tree of life and know the very atoms I am made from still spin within me. It’s pretty good. Norm Peterson and written by Jack Gator

The Music of the Spheres

/ Norman Eric Peterson / 1 Comment

There is one thing for Norm, only one thing that he has embraced within since he was ten years old. It is seven musical notes that urge him on to seek more notes like that. A musical pathway that opens up into a canyon of music, ringing to him with the release of beauty sung or played.

The seven notes are the beginning notes of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. When Norm could play the piano, he would play that piece after lunch at home by himself. It calmed and washed all the grade school confusion away. He would walk back to school and often, the neighborhood bully with the odd Croatian name would push him around a bit. Like most bullies, he was afraid of Norm and probably would have made a good friend if Norm had known how to do that. A learned skill for life later for him.

The music that stuns when he hears it or plays it suddenly makes him shiver with delight. “Oh, it’s You!” It draws the inventor of music to share the wavelengths of love with Norm. Feels good.

His favorite author, C.S. Lewis describes ‘the heavens’ filled with planets and stars continuously singing to us. It’s in his classic ‘Out of the Silent Planet’ series. We don’t listen because it’s always there.

It happens unexpectedly which makes it even more enjoyable. Music is the transcendent language. Anyone or anything that has hearing can understand the language. But here isn’t really a series of books or classes that can teach us how to do so. Norm likes the way the music can catch him by surprise. A bird of impossible clarity singing the sun up. A two bit country band starting up a Bob Wills waltz in some forgotten venue. Norm hit the first three notes with double stops and cannot stop hearing them some half a century later. A worship set that ended with a guitar playing harmonics along with soft brushes on the trap drum. There are so many delightful surprises in music that go far beyond any expectation. A lot of them are totally for that moment, mostly teamwork unrehearsed. A ‘band’ sort of wading through a piece they have worked out. Suddenly Someone else sings and plays and the music swirls like a surprise wind. It catches the top gallant of your joyful sail and heels you over with a shout and speed.

‘Music, it calms the savage breast’ when nothing else can. Sunsets, shooting stars, an eclipse or two can be seen or painted and captured. The rush of breath of the stunning scene usually doesn’t come with a photo of these things. The immediacy of music, fading as soon as it’s played. Our minds caught off guard like an unexpected camera flash can do. What a language! Speaking in the tongues of sound.

It is the voice of our creator whispering those notes. He is worshiped for eternity with singing and instruments only found in the mind of a dying musician being presented with his score sheet. “If I could write down those notes! A man just reading that music would never grow ill nor die”1.

So, that’s Norm’s fascination and he suspects there are many others that experience the same thing. Satellite radio? Music of the Sphere’s indeed! It’s pretty good. “Every planet in his proper sphere is moving mankind in harmony and sound” 2.

Jack Gator

1. C.S. Lewis “The great divorce” 2. Henryson {Fables 1659)

Who’s On First?

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It started for real in Grade school. Loring In North Minneapolis. Nice neighborhood, now infested with the North Side Banger Boyz and their opponents, The Dowling DMZ’s A nicer group of fentanyl dealers that just want to protect their neighborhood. Counselors are always telling us to set boundaries, Dowling Avenue is one of them. There are several other roads and boulevards,but that one separates the two social clubs.

They all have user friendly 9mm semi automatic pistols and when sales are good, they even give each other boxes of target loads. A deterrent for bad business practices. The hollow points usually kill. The target loads are a more ‘forgiving’ round for a reminder to wind up at North Memorial. Don’t even think about walking around in Camden. You might wind up in the nearby Mississippi. Little Chicago. The Themadons are far away on Lake st.

So when Norm was living there, he began the isolation and rejection cycle. Loneliness. Playing in the forbidden bedroom with his sisters piano at lunchtime. It calmed and reassured him. Beatings, violence, sexual abuse, Norm’s precious cat killed for convenience by Grandpa. rejection of every kind. Norm figured it was the same for everyone (closer than we think) He has cataloged all the trauma in other columns, it’s actually boring and embarrassing to bring them up. You know the feeling. Turning away in your mind and believing you are damaged goods. There isn’t any insurance form to fill out for a refund either. However, sometimes his mind pays a visit. Prisoners appreciate those things.

Norm usually expects rejection. From everyone. (Lately it really hit close to home.) As you may surmise from the photo above, Norm played fiddle for a living. This photo was taken at Duluth for a fiddle contest decades ago. Look at the station wagon on the right. It’s a collector car now. Sort of. Charlie Jirousek is facing us. 12 string guitar player extaordinare. Long gone in Safety Harbor, Florida. Norm prays that is indeed where he is now. Safe and secure at fleet landing with the Lord there, arms wide open for his troubadour.

Norm was in bar bands, fiddle contest judging, square dance bands and as a folk singer traveling the east coast playing guitar. The music given by the Lord to him is strong and he still hears a tune and can hear it, audibly, three times after it has been played. His son’s alarm clock tune or the washer/dryer tunes stick that way too.

Always, always the applause excited Norm and filled that big track hoe hole in his spirit. For a while. He grew to expect the anti-trauma quietness and fulfilling peace in music. He also had a brief addiction to Heroin that sort of did the same thing. Another God story. A real bad substitute for trauma. It seems not to last and the need increases.

Lately Norm had been playing in a church band a few times now and then and worship holds a place all of it’s own in his repertoire. Fiddle, mandolin and guitar with vocals if needed. It was pretty good at filling that rejection hole. The best kind of ‘clean fill’ you can get. Within the last year the gigs became few and far between. An occasional men’s retreat or a worship set. Playing along with an Ihop ‘modeled’ set for two hours and allowing sung prayers to come forth works well. Prayer room stuff.

All of it has come to a halt. All the fancy equipment sits in their cases, unused. Norm has lost one of his last refuges of comfort and assuaging that rejection wound. Now the wound is bleeding and even his family has not asked Norm to play with them in worship. Trauma again. Loss of worth wounds, again.

The usual pity party to go along with it gives Norm isolation vibes for everyone. No one asks him to play with them which he has been doing for over 70 years. Too old? Overplaying? Who knows. Maybe just the hunger displayed again. Pick me please, Oh Pick me, I’ll be good and even practice at home! Pick me Pick me. The wounded cry of the steam locomotive of Norm’s childhood. I have mentioned. the Long drawn out last sound. He can still hear it 70 years later. Lonely at the distant crossing as he lay in bed with the window cracked open a bit. Music of sorrow. Two longs, one short and a long again, held and released slowly. Steam engine sounds Lonely.

Norm’s old bar band was eager to have him ‘sit in’ this week and we are thanking providence that it didn’t happen. The family could use the money if he was hired though. Jazz with trumpet, guitar and bass. Fun but not worship. Nothing wrong with fun coupled with music, but it tends to bring out applause which feeds Norm’s ego and sense of worth. How do you shout out JESUS in a chorus of ‘lady be good’? Boldly I suppose..?

The other day there appeared a way out of the sadness! Norm decided to put away those precious instruments and not look for anyone to ask him to play them. Not even his wife. It took away the anxiety and fear right away.

There is no word from the Lord about playing again either. Possibly when the addiction is gone? He can still play at home to the music he enjoys on the internet. Alone. Better than an old bandbox jukebox box for sure. It’s like being back in his sister’s room, all alone, and playing his heart out and cleaning the tears off of the keys before going back to elementary school. It will work for an unknown period of time. It’s worship. The Lord hears it all.

Jesus will let him know when it’s time to come out of isolation and just be available. Right now it feels good and right to dump the hunger for that first baseman’s position on the ‘play’ ground.

Jack Gator.

Creativity of a Wordsmith

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

“The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, does glance from heaven to Earth, from Earth to heaven; and as imagination brings forth the forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothing, a local habitation and a name.” a

There is a great deal of unread and unnoticed wisdom floating about. Often, those words get clouded over with brash recitation. The meanings almost completely lost for the listener to the erudite speaker. We all do it. As a radio would just become background noise to alleviate the lack of conversation, so does great literature and poetry become in the hands of a tone deaf musician. After all, music is poetry put to sound. Prose and poetry are intoxicating concertos when done well.

Of course, there is a beginning to listening and that is a decision to be made by us all. Do we believe in what is being said as truth, real truth? Or does the effort to inculcate us with excitement in discovered truth not appeal? After all, You and I are most ignorant of great wisdom that lies just about, flat and bound in cardboard or fine leather. Stacks of those at times around my comfy chair that somehow manages to lull me to sleep. Just when my hungry mind starts to come awake, I fall into a slumber. Too much of the fruit of the mind can be intoxicating. Small doses work better for me.

Am I getting tedious and bit vague now? Good, that’s the point. Trained at an early age to embrace ‘speed reading’, I become a bit of a prig without understanding well. The words were read correctly and their meaning understood. There is a word that showed up on the old, yellowed report cards now and then, comprehension. A good illustration would be a story about a young boy that had an extraordinary experience. This boy in the story found a treasure that was revealed later in the book. I instantly thought of booty and coin like. My intellect was not engaged in the story.

The story in mind was a fantasy about real things of spirit and life. The author (a recognized master) had written the story to engage both our excitement and awareness of our selves in the story. After a paragraph or two, stories like this one should be vivid. We paint pictures and set in a sound track. After the story or movie per se’, the author rather insists we go beyond and play the melody of words that add a great deal. Great literature can resemble piano lessons. Suddenly the flatted fifth is beauty..

The next time this happens, I catch himself either dozing, editing to make the story make sense in my mind. ‘This isn’t relevant to me. Why am I listening/reading this? Just as wheat is combined, the sifting begins to yield the golden kernel hidden in a plain looking stalk. The loaves of bread in the promise are not seen by casual glances. Gleaning it is called and we are called to glean wisdom from everyone we meet in person or not. Our choice. Be arrogant and think of ourselves as complete as we are, or open up our hearts and find treasure at hand. Treasures abound if we look for it. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator Scribe

a. William Shakespeare With much thanks to George MacDonald for his novel, At the Back of the North Wind

Conversation Desire and another Glimpse of Eternity

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It was one of those soirees, delightful providence of food and people well all yearn for. It went on for the perfect amount of time. Beautiful children, eager pets and faces and voices familiar. Polite words of promise and the search for lives barely understood. Surrounded by a choir, singing a light opera of intimacy, queries and laughter. The author of the notes and stanzas still in the wings waiting for the stage call.

Bits of the score, heard but not completely understood are jealously embraced, acted in a dream that night. The unrecognized but palatable yearning to be written into the opera at various stanza’s almost heard and ended many times with recognizable laughing voices.

Sometimes, you have the impression that the author has saved your savoring for last powerful measures. The ending of stunning beauty, only felt by a few actors still remaining on the stage. Duets mostly but with engagement of song between several singers. Fulfillment and with the dishes put away and the snap of tables folded for the next production in the background. The final notes played like beautiful, loud trumpets and kettle drums building to your then silent departure.

We have all been there. It was an invitation with promise and the invitation given casually. Turn on the voice in the car and follow her instructions. ‘Turn left’ almost going through the stop sign while looking for the road she was telling you about. Blue tooth on the car radio and it works. Sometimes. Upon arrival, it was anticipated that parking would be somewhat complex. It was a breeze this time. A few decades of months in the winter past, the sleigh and the snow complicated parking. A wonder of landscaping came into view. The stage was set.

The guest of honor spoke after a delightful lunch. myself and Julie, sitting in the front heard him plainly. The intriguing thing was his demeanor. Engaging. You knew he was not used to speaking and it really helped him. Not smooth but truth easily heard and personal as weakness’ and surprises as well.

After he spoke there were the inevitable requests for clarification and he handled that very well. Professional speakers are a dreadful bore in those circumstances. Thanks be he was again, engaging and the time sped by.

Since we were in the front row, it was natural to approach him and reassure him. We talked and talked well. There was no lecturing. Fascination. Worlds presented from far away. The mission to intrigue and cause a slight tip of the head to look beyond sight. The author delighted in us.

A light opera, conducted just for us it seemed. As indeed the accouterments were put away and no one else was seen or heard around us, we realized it was the curtain call. The car was easily seen as the other ones were gone.

Every one of the guests and hosts had politely exited and we felt very honored as we conveyed the mutual pleasure of the evening to one another. Real conversation. After all, the opera of honor was well written and well sung by all. Silence and delight at what had been given.

The author of the play is still with us. He has a habit of doing that. He rode back with us and is, as usual, still about the ranch. He helps me write, he surprises us with snippets of astonishing beauty that we have never seen before. We long for more, always. We hunger for the meal again as we wait with eager anticipation. At times, He shouts his name over us. Jesus, author and finisher of our faith. it’s pretty good.. Jack Gator Scribe

Musical Pathways

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

There are many ways as perhaps there are people to engage with music. It’s a bit of a stretch to think that way but it seemed apparent at a recent conversation. Three of the Gator family were discussing response to music played live. Not recorded. Ex Ante or before the music is heard, versus Ex Post afterwards.

Jack began seriously thinking about why he likes certain experiences of music, including music he has played ensemble. Is it the gestalt of everything, the singing, the instruments or the attitudes seen and felt? Perhaps at least all three, but one aspect stood out for Jack. The rhythm. When Jack played for years with a local square dance band, rhythm was everything. Even if the perceived pace was two or three times the chords or notes played. The dancers listened to the ‘caller’ we played the tune. No body in the band sung anything.

Before long, after joining the band at the invite of the mandolin player, Jack realized the gift he had been given for all of his life. He loved music from childhood onward but until he joined that band ( Duck for the Oyster) Jack did not know what really moved him about music. They knew after a short time of playing together. It was a four piece band consisting of a fiddle, a mandolin, a stand up bass and Jack on Guitar. Jack became dubbed “The Rhythm Monster” The playing of a chord slightly ahead of it’s usual place. Doubling up the time signature while the band played in ‘half time’. Adding extra beats to change a waltz so if the dancers were not careful, they could be a bit lost.

It made things cook and now and then when Jack would do these things, the guys would give a brief chuckle and join in the fun. Just adding a harmonic note instead of a chord would work too. They were all fantastic musicians and the joy they projected was palpable.

Nowadays, Jack plays with a small ensemble that is always a different group except for the guitar player and lead singer. He is, of course, the leader that gets the songs, the charts, the order and picks just who he hears in his mind to play. He picks Jack to play mandolin and violin every month or two and whenever they rehearse and play, Jack has fun with the rhythm with his instruments. The real high notes that are played with a tremolo makes the leader ‘laugh’ with delight. The fiddle Jack plays sounds more like the square dance and waltz things Jack learned playing country western music in the middle 70’s. Double stops with chops and more harmonics. It’s Jack’s love language.

This band is a worship band that plays in front of a sizable group and the hard part is playing a short period of five or less songs. The goal is to project the joy of the subject (whom Jack has some experience with) and the sure pathway to projecting this joy is to experience it in front of the singers, the congregation. A quick smile or a nod of a head. A quick glance by the leader with that smile, conveys the joy sought with all their hearts. It’s preaching on a different level. The message is always the same. The living God Jesus, deserves all the glory and honor. He dances and gives His joy to those in the room along with Him. Nothing else comes even close.

Do what you love and love what you do. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator

A Vision of Forever and Ever

/ Norman Eric Peterson / 1 Comment

It’s always been there and it always will be. Described by a man thousands of years ago when he was on an island in the Mediterranean (Patmos). Eternal joy. I was given a two second glimpse of that years ago. It was pretty good. Ask me about it, I love to share these things.

My family has been given some of those enticing and wondrous glimpses into that joy too. What a gift it is. I am certain that quite a few of you reading this have experienced the curtain of eternity pulled aside briefly. We wait behind that curtain for our part in the play and it is irresistible to peek.

There is something, there is everything, there is wonder and amazement just so close to us. Often, without even knowing it, we are given a sneak preview of that grand production. Another gift. I have written about these things as long as I have been writing. Most of it falls short. After all, if I was capable of writing perfectly, I wouldn’t have to keep trying to get it right. It’s close sometimes but always in need of a sequel to flesh it out again. Like this one. This time I will get closer and capture even my own attention? That’s the best way.

As Augustine stated: ” Teaching is essential, praise is a sweetness, but persuasion is a reward.“

There is that writing that I mentioned in the first sentence. It was written by a man named John. He saw what we all yearn for. Meaning to life. myself, a musician, really resonates with this vision as it has a lot of music in it. Can you even imagine a breathtaking song that you listen to and become a part of forever, and never tire of it’s beauty? Never ending as the slow breath of a perfect song.. The music of the spheres at night that are the innumerable stars, all singing, just for us because of His love. Things like that.

Music that sings of that beauty. About that beauty and sung to the author and creator of the songs of beauty. It is an eternal song that never grows weary and is always fresh and stunning again and again as it reaches farther than the small galaxy that sings along.

Myself with my family once sang a song echoing that. We sang a prayer that went on for a few hours and when it was done, we saw that the clock in that room had stopped running at the precise time we had begun. Appropriate. It was the last song sung in that prayer room. The new owner of the building did not know about these things. For the family it was another glimpse and kiss from our Creator.

There is a place that sings these things and has been doing it for over twenty years. It’s an old tradition that began in the upper reaches of Bavaria. Many centuries ago. Antiphonal singing that is written about the Moravions led by Count Zinzindorf. Non stop. Comparable to Davids singers in scripture.

Now on the internet, every few hours, another team of musicians steps up and continues the worship. Available on an incredible machine that funnels that worship into homes via a length of glass.

Worship also that continues on a sea of glass mingled with fire in eternity. In many ways gatherings throughout our world, worship is available any time of our day on the internet.

It is a delightful way to connect heart to Heart. I turn on my computer and put on the headphones early, and I listen and watch. A cup of coffee and worship is a good way to start the day. Amazing. You can dial into your own church’s recordings and watch and pray with those teams?

Different people taking the yoke of beauty in rooms of worship that never stops. In a very small way, echoing that vision given thousands of years ago on that little island in the Mediterranean sea that I spent a few days on. It is Malta.

We were there with the sixth fleet, anchored out with our ship and taking a liberty boat to the shore. The same shore that Paul the apostle was shipwrecked on. Much time has passed since Paul and it still feels like yesterday that both of us were there. Beauty forever there too. because of the creator of beauty that was revealed to a man on another island in the Mediterranean sea. John on Patmos. A man known by Paul. What a coincidence or is it Providence?

It’s pretty good. Jack Gator scribe

The Fletching and the Arrow

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

There is an often neglected or perhaps, unseen part of almost everything we see or do. A critical part that is absolutely essential. It was when our family was having one of those intense conversations in the comfy living room at Home. all of them were struggling to find a deeper meaning to the intensity of their lives. The seemingly insignificant impact they have on truth and the revealing of truth to the world. “How can what we have done be of any use whatsoever?”

I suddenly remembered a musical incident, decades ago that I treasure but I didn’t really know why. The incident was in a crummy and run down city neighborhood, up on the second floor overlooking the main street. A very famous band was in town and the place where I lived had a living room large enough to encompass half the neighborhoods up and coming musicians and the band. The band arrived as the word was out in the whole country that this apartment was a Mecca for music skill and release among peers of that skill. It was on the west bank of Minneapolis, right across the Mississippi from the U of M.

The band casually set up a few guitars and the local musicians began arriving after their gigs and a few bottles and hippie combustibles were handed around. A circle around the famous ones formed and one of the neighborhood pedal steel players, (Cal Hand) clueless, asked the band leader; “Do you guys sing?” “ Sure” the band leader replied. Why don’t you do one of your songs the steel player said. And, the impromptu orchestra began to play. It was loud with about 15 or so playing and I too was in the circle doing what I play. I was Intimidated by the fast picking and skill of the others for sure. One of those skilled guitar players just stepped in front of me and began furiously playing 5 notes a second in a brilliant bluegrass style. I moved back and put my guitar back in the case and just listened to the crescendo. By the way, that musician is still playing bars and cafes all over the twin cities. Looking for that big break from Vince Gill or Ricky Skaggs. That pedal steel player went on to play for Tom T Hall by the way.

A while later after some imported beer from Wisconsin, the band leader sidled up the me and asked me to go with him and the band back to San Francisco. I knew I wasn’t the caliber of the room full. “ I like what you added” Was the response. Jerry Garcia asking me that question was any of the rooms players fondest hope. Having just come from Berkeley and a narrow escape from death by heroin there, I said “thank you, but I can’t. Jerry had said, “The few notes that you played made the song richer” Stunned again, I thanked him and my friend, a well known area disk jockey, was standing there besides them. Alan Stone from KQRS. The radio station every one listened to. He reminded me of that brief conversation years later when some reel to reel recording was done of my self and my close military vet. The recordings have been lost since, but the stunning invitation has always given me a sense of worth in music. I actually would become famous but then I also would be dead as are the rest of the Grateful dead band. Heroin did them all in. Janis Joplin, Grace Slick, the Plaster Casters and Big Brother and the Holding company, Jimmy Hendricks too. A long list of the bay areas best and famous ones.

I still try to play the fast stuff and gets awestruck by the speed and skill of a music major that I played with, Jeff Warren. I played with a few notes, Soft sometimes. Lingering and bringing forward what I hear to an ensemble. A harmonic that soars briefly at times. very similar to a few words of declaration, a witness to one person by you is just as valued as a stadium filled hearing a healing message. The value is not in the size of contact, It is in the accuracy and the intent of the message. Much like an arrow, shot from a powerful bow with a razor sharp point. The target will be missed because of the lack of a small part. The fletching on the arrow. Even one or three of them. I have experienced listening to those notes and words that float into my mind and stay, for a lifetime.

The Lord of all we see, hear and feel tells us our uniqueness and how we fit into His plan for Him. The point of His plan and of it’s destination is of eternal value as the accuracy and beauty of it.

Value is indeed, in the eye of the beholder. You are precious and well known. Jesus loves you, this I know, for the Bible tells me so. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator Scribe

40 acres of musicians

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It was only by a random act of kindness that I wound up at a old whore house in the middle of the city. I was living in my truck at this time. In the bed of the old International was a wood frame camper. I had built it a year ago with a saw, screwdriver and a Swiss army knife. It even had skylights of Plexiglas that were now covering up with snow. I was sleeping in the camper and was very ill with Hepatitis and with no heat in the truck, shivering a bit. The renter of record at the apartment had pity on me and let me in the upstairs shotgun apartments to sleep on the couch. After all, I had eaten there a few days before and the chef had Hepatitis.

That kind man who welcomed me in was William Teska (Bill) an Episcopal priest whose Diocese funded the New Riverside Cafe as a neighborhood ministry.

The neighborhood was mostly tie dyed with a few bpm motorcycle club members hanging out at the Triangle bar a block away from our apartment on 605 1/2 / Cedar Avenue. Second floor, above the free store.

It turned out that my recent friend, Charley Jirousek, from the Berkeley adventures lived there and sort of reluctantly, had room for me and my guitar. After all, the two of us shared a love for country blues on our guitars and we both ate a lot of peanut butter to survive. Charley still had his massive black and white Malamute and the dog was always delightful and took up about as much room as I did.

It was not long after I showed up that there opened up a job at the local restaurant/coffee house down the block. The New Riverside Cafe.The job’s wages were: Rent, food and an occasional pitcher of beer at the 400 bar, kiddy corner from the Cafe’.

There was a stage and seating at the Cafe’ and nights brought in an audience from all over the city. The big light of talent attracted as lights usually do to flying life forms. We served organic vegetarian food and it was pretty good stuff, especially the soups. For a while, we had no prices for the food. People would come in for the incredible music and ask how much for the menu items. ” Pay what you can.” I would lean over the counter and comment, “Nice shoes! Where did you get them?” People did pay well as they could afford. A few locals a bit up against it would ask for the soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. We gave them the soup and the grilled cheese was a paying proposition. Free coffee too. Working in the kitchen was a ballet and it was a good dance. I was a swamper (dish washer) and I liked it. After all, the only things I knew how to prepare were PBJ’s and Dinty Moore beef stew.

The music was also excellent and it was a mix of blues, folk and bluegrass mostly by the musicians in the small neighborhood. It was not, however, a usual neighborhood in a big city. It was Hemmed in by several freeways, a river and the downtown tall buildings along with the state university. Approximately 40 acres with small business’ that reflected the times. The West Bank of Minneapolis.

It was obvious that the population of that neighborhood consisted of a majority of eager and talented professional musicians. Singer-songwriters, Guitarists, fiddlers, banjo players, bass players and so forth. It was stunningly thick with them. I remember five world-class fiddle/violin players alone. One of them turned out to be a roommate, Bill Hinkley with his wife Judy Larsen along with a harmonica player and stand up bass player. I was invited to tour with a handful of them to the east coast.

We played college campus’ and coffee houses throughout the Midwest and east coast. This was heady stuff. A bit of a learning curve of the professional circuit sorts of things. A few of the locals were a bit puzzled by my being included in that tour. Most of the local pickers played and sang well, but the overwhelming number of them all wore cowboy hats and had rodeo buckles. Horses and corrals were never seen nearby. Their outfits were the folk music image of that time.

My new friends were the remnants of the beat generation. Tough and a bit rough around the edges, I got to play with Jerry Garcia when the Grateful Dead came to town and I was asked to join them! A good friend who was the hip radio stations night time DJ, Alan Stone, was at that music party. KQRS radio and he began recording me and my fellow veteran, Bruce Berglund of the motorcycle diary series at this web site.

The cowboy folks did not care for us. Nor did the locals who had made it to vinyl records that sold pretty well. Koerner, Ray and Glover. It was the usual musician fear and ego. We all were competitive for the stages in the area and most of the music was pretty swell really. The local guitar shop sold lots of D’Addario stirng sets for sure.

By the way, I declined the invitation to join the Grateful Dead. I knew the band name was very prophetic as all those musicians are gone now, most with heroin OD’s. Living in Berkeley and being involved with a heroin smuggling outfit, I got addicted. It takes all the pain away, physical and mental. I liked it. I remember those times vividly as we sold most of it to Sly and the Family Stone across the bay.

Another story of God’s deliverance when a voice in my private room said: “Live or death, choose now” I obviously chose life, it seemed a pretty serious event. The addiction was gone immediately and there was no withdrawal. A miracle from the Lord. It was one of ‘those events’ that are life saving and we don’t know who to thank.

The whole Cedar-Riverside scene ended when a developer (Heller and Segal) bought the entire neighborhood and began building high rises. I then quit the Riverside cafe and began a career as a railroad worker but still lived on the west bank. I eventually moved to the country, hours north. A small farm on the GI bill, about the same acreage as the old neighborhood. Rural Nothwest Wisconsin where I and my family still live.

Moving north to a farm was scary. I played fiddle in the barn before walking into the house while the rental van with everything I owned in it sat parked. It was raining on April fools day. The walk into the house was very strange. Alone and I had Never owned a house before. It smelled funny and the first challenge was to find all the light switches and figure out where to sleep. My orange cat didn’t come out of the van for a day. The house was heated with a fuel oil furnace and the previous owner left a note that mentioned the fuel oil tank was over 1/2 full and figured “It was a pretty good deal”. Of course, the new home smelled a new smell to me.

My old friend, Bruce, lived about 3/4 of a mile away, just down the road. That helped a lot. Bruce is the other motorcyclist in ‘Motorcycle diaries’ He introduced me to some of the locals and one young man became a good friend and was my roommate for a while. He taught me how to cut firewood and built a new chimney for the house and then proceeded to hook up and run a wood stove. It was a ‘step stove’ made locally and it worked quite well until it later developed a hole in it’s side. my new friend was a good man known for his kindness and smile. His nickname is Smiley, of course.

I started playing my fiddle on the back of a bunk car, feet up on the brakeman’s wheel when I worked the steel gangs on derailments down in southern Minnesota. The other men never complained. It felt like I was sitting around a campfire playing a harmonica after a long day on the trail. Folksy along with the missed notes and scratchy bowing.

At first when I began section work, I worked with the section gang at Dinkytown, just over the Missisippi from the west bank. More stories of a great foreman, Big Leroy, and all the trauma and injuries when men work around trains.

A visit to an old Cafe friends hardware store in Cedar-Riverside after work brought forth a sturdy chain saw and really swell touring bicycle. Still have both of them although the Jensrud 80 doesn’t start very well and pulling the starter cord almost breaks my wrist. My youngest son won’t even use it. Why bother when his Farm Boss Stihl weighs half as much and also starts pretty good.

I was injured at a section yard just across the St.Croix and I could not do the 12 pound hammer swinging anymore. I first began playing in a local country western band. Bars within driving distance with three other guys. Dandelion Wine was our name. . Mandatory cowboy hats for the band. No horses or rodeo buckles but nice vests and boots. I guess the lesson was to look the part as it made it easier for the audiences. We played the classics; Bob Wills and Johnny Cash sort of things. A touch of fiddle tunes and a hint of bluegrass. One of the local bars we were regulars at is about 30 miles away, Louis’, became a nice church called New Life. Appropriate.

The house business of repairing foreign cars came to life and I ran it for 40 years. It was a good income and the commute was a breeze.

Much later, I met my wife Julie, riding bicycles together (another column, (Bicycle built for Two).They built a real home together. Men build houses, women build homes. I then started playing with a square dance band as an upgrade. No cowboy hats, but Julie made me a really nice vest with ducks on it. The band was called Duck for the Oyster it is the title of a a square dance.

Bill Teska wound up marrying Julie and I about 30 years after I met him. A few of those 40 acre musicians played with me in the wedding. Bill Hinkley, Mary Dushane, Kevin McMullin and myself played a Swedish waltz surrounding Julie in her wedding gown right after the processional . It was pretty swell.

A decade or so later, I became aware of Jesus during a choir presentation up the hill from our home. Good move. It was a Christmas Cantata conducted by Hellmuth Bycoski at Zion Lutheran church. The holy Spirit got through to me during the song ‘Mary Did you Know’ and I have never been the same since. I love the changes even if they are very painful. It takes time to surrender. Julie is patient with me. I got better and continue to do so.

Our family got good at playing and singing worship music It was a big change from seeking admiration and money to the fresh air of a calling that began when I was 10. I now had discovered worship is the best music on and off the planet. Our family built and staffed a small house of prayer about seven miles away in Frederic. We were there about four years until the building was sold.

Now I write these columns about the transformational life and love that comes from Jesus, our Creator.

I still have the instruments and occasionally take them out and I play at home with recordings of some worship leaders I have met. It’s a world of growth in many ways, and the spirit within me and my family keeps growing stronger every day.

It’s pretty good. Jack Gator scribe